


Four Ways the House/Cameron Date Could Have Ended

by starhawk2005



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the writers left the end of their date open, why not speculate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Ways the House/Cameron Date Could Have Ended

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Want to, but don’t. Bummer.  
> Special thanks to: My S.O. for beta’ing.

Version #1:

“You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn't perfect. That's why you married a man who was dying of cancer. You don't love - you _need_. And now that your husband is dead, you're looking for your new charity case….That's why you're going out with me. I'm twice your age, I'm not great-looking, I'm not charming...I'm not even nice. What I am is what you need - I'm damaged.”

It felt like being stabbed in the gut. Kicked, and _then_ stabbed. Allison said nothing, just sat and watched him. He had gone back to perusing the menu, like he hadn’t just ripped her heart out of her chest and done the jitterbug on it.

_ He’s _wrong, she told herself. _He’s just saying those things to me to push me away, to hide his own feelings._

She picked up her own menu, trying to act, like him, as though nothing had happened….but the seed of doubt that House had so bluntly planted was already starting to grow. 

What if he was right? Not that she thought she could fix everything. She was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. Thomas’ thyroid cancer had _not_ been ‘fixable’. 

But what if she was indeed not capable of ‘loving’ someone? Ok, so House was right, he was no Brad Pitt. So, yeah, he was quite a bit older than her. And he was abrasive and rude, she had told him that herself. Allison had thought that what she felt for House, despite all the apparent obstacles, _was_ love, but…

She found herself hiding behind her menu, not wanting to make eye contact with him, not wanting to be picked apart any further. Her stomach was starting to ache, and she wasn’t hungry anymore. And her brain refused to let the issue go.

‘ _I’m damaged’, he said, and he called_ me _damaged, before….._ Ok, so she _hadn’t_ had much experience in love. There’d been a few short relationships here and there, but in terms of anything serious, there had been only Thomas, and he had died….

_Damaged._ The word stuck in her mind. She tried to look over the top of her menu at House, and couldn’t bring herself to do it. _He thinks I’m damaged. That I’m not capable of really loving another person._

Her stomach was _really_ starting to hurt, now. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, trying to tell herself that this had been House’s very plan all along – to push her away, to make her doubt herself so she would back off….but behind her eyes, she could see Thomas in those final days, lying pale and thin on his hospital bed, going in and out of consciousness. And even when he _was_ conscious, not recognizing her most of the time. The person she loved – had _thought_ she loved – effectively disappearing as the cancer ate its way into his brain…

Almost before she knew what she was doing, she had stood up and pushed her chair back. She could feel House’s eyes on her, but didn’t – couldn’t – look up at him. When she managed to speak, her voice came out sounding strange – quivery, weak – but she kept on. She couldn’t stay here, not like this. “Thank you for….an interesting evening. I’ve got to go.”

She turned to leave, and then realized that she didn’t want to see him again, _ever_. _I won’t crush you, he promised me. Yeah, right._ Too embarrassing, too _painful_ to see him every day at PPTH, after this….this…’diagnosis’ he had made of her. So she forced herself to turn back halfway, though she still didn’t look at him. “Sorry, but it looks like you’ll have to start doing those fellowship interviews again.” Her voice sounding now flat and dead in her own ears.

Without waiting for his reply, she headed towards the door, feeling as though everyone in the restaurant was watching her leave, feeling her skin crawl at the very thought. Feeling somehow both empty and full of pain at the same time, wanting nothing more than to escape and hide somewhere safe, where she could lick her wounds and try to make sense of what had just happened….

 

She’d managed to find a free cab within moments of exiting the restaurant. Once home, she quickly stripped off her high-heeled shoes, her black dress, her lacy undergarments….feeling no longer able to bear _any_ reminder of what had happened. Something fluttered in her mind as her fingers brushed the corsage, but she just let it fall to the floor with the rest.

She put on pyjama bottoms and a tank top, and turned off the lights. She crawled right into bed, not even hungry, although she had eaten nothing since lunch. She wrapped her arms around her pillow and waited for the tears to come….

But they didn’t.

Instead, her mind kept playing and replaying Thomas’ final days. And she kept wondering if House had been right about her.

She lost track of time, lying dry-eyed and tormented in the dark. Until suddenly, there was a by-now familiar rap at the door. _Dammit._ she thought. _Let him rot out there_. _Questioning my feelings for Thomas. Making me doubt myself. And all because he doubts_ himself.

But House apparently wasn’t going to give up that easily. After several minutes of loud rapping, Allison could hear some of her neighbours starting to bang on their own walls, so she reluctantly got up and went to her door.

Making sure the security chain was on, she opened it. 

“You left before dinner.” he said, without preamble. “Here, I hope you like ravioli.” He was holding a styrofoam container out to her.

She just stood there looking at him for a moment _. First, he basically tells me I’m a needy little girl, and then he brings me dinner. God, this is_ fucked _up_.

But she saw the look in his eyes, and knew better than to argue with him when he was like this. So she closed the door for a moment, releasing the chain, and then opened it just wide enough to take the container from him, making sure that her fingers didn’t touch his, and not meeting his eyes.

“I’ll expect you in the office at the usual time tomorrow, by the way.” he said casually.

Sudden ire made her bold enough to meet his eyes again. “No.”

“As I recall,” he said, looking up at the ceiling, “you signed some piece of paper when I hired you, stating that you had to stay at PPTH for a minimum of two years. I’m going to hold you to that. Not to mention that I held up _my_ end of our more recent deal – I took you out on a date. Just ‘cause _you_ left early, doesn’t make it a deal-breaker.”

Her jaw dropped in shock. Thinking fast, she threw at him: “You didn’t say anything about my contract when Vogler wanted me gone.”

“He would’ve just used his Godlike powers to terminate the contract, so it was kinda pointless to bring it up.” He was meeting her stare for stare.

“Fuck you.” she said, the emotional chaos inside her driving her to say things that were probably _very_ unwise. “Contract or not, I’m not coming back.”

Steel in his voice, he replied, “It’s one thing to be downsized by upper management. It’s another thing if your former boss lets your future employers know _why_ you quit…do you think they’d want to hire you, knowing you let your feelings get in the way of your fellowship?”

“You….” she spluttered. “You’re blackmailing _me_?”

“Why not?” he gave an exaggerated shrug. “All the ‘in’ kids are doing it these days. Heck, you did it to me, so turnaround seems to be fair play.”

She couldn’t process this. He preferred to have her around and have things be ‘weird’, even after all this…?

“Get some sleep, Dr. Cameron. I’m not planning on cutting you any slack tomorrow….” He turned and started to walk away.

“Wait. What are you going to tell Wilson ?” she asked. _And Cuddy. And Chase and Foreman,_ she thought.

He paused but didn’t turn around. “The truth, of sorts. We went out for dinner. Had a candid conversation. I had the puttanesca, you had the ravioli. End of story.” He started down the hallway again.

Allison didn’t watch him leave, just closed her door. And looked at the ravioli container. She resisted the urge to hurl it down the hallway. _May as well eat it_ , she thought. So she went to reheat it, and to try to figure out what to do about tomorrow.

On her way to the kitchen, she nearly tripped over the pile of clothing she had discarded in the hallway earlier. The corsage was uppermost on the pile, still pinned to her dress. Answering some vague impulse, she bent and unpinned it, carrying it with her into the kitchen.

She ate in a kind of daze, trying her best not to think about much of anything, trying to clear her mental workspace before tackling what she was going to do about PPTH tomorrow.

Still carrying the corsage with her, she brushed her teeth and then climbed into bed for the second time that night.

She turned out the lights and laid the corsage on her other pillow. And that was when realization struck – he hadn’t _had_ to give her flowers. Just like he hadn’t _had_ to bring her dinner. So, even if he thought she _was_ damaged, even if he thought that she _needed_ instead of _loved_ , it still seemed that he was going above and beyond the call of duty…and she felt some of her hope rekindle….

But after some thought, she came to the decision that she _wasn’t_ going to chase him around like she used to. He obviously wasn’t ready to get into any meaningful relationship with her. So she made the decision to continue to go to PPTH (and it wasn’t like he had left her much choice), be the best doctor she could be, learn all she could from Gregory House, and do her best to be calm, strong, and collected the whole time. Be the complete opposite of ‘needy little girl’. And if he changed his mind and decided to come around, he knew where to find her.

But for tonight, she’d allow herself the weakness of crying herself to sleep…if not for Greg House, then for Thomas Miller…

 

The next day, when Chase and Foreman questioned her about her date, she repeated some of what House had said to her the night before – specifically, the ‘candid conversation’ part, just to keep their stories similar. She blamed the puffy eyes on ‘the wine’. She stuck to her resolve to be calm, strong, collected.

And when asked if she and House would go out again, she just told the truth “I…don’t know.” _The ball is in his court, and it’s out of my control. I can only control how I react to him, not what_ he’ll _do. So that’s what I’m going to focus on._

It would be enough….it would have to.

 

Version #2:

“You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn't perfect. That's why you married a man who was dying of cancer. You don't love - you _need_. And now that your husband is dead, you're looking for your new charity case….That's why you're going out with me. I'm twice your age, I'm not great-looking, I'm not charming...I'm not even nice. What I am is what you need - I'm damaged.”

At first, she didn’t know what to say or think. The waiter came and took their order, and then it was back to the uncomfortable silence, House scrunching up his face and looking anywhere but at her, Allison staring into her wine glass and trying to shut down the growing rage that she felt.

The silence between them continued.

They were almost halfway through their pasta course, when House made some snide remark about how little she was eating, and wasn’t it rude to do that when he was shelling out at her own request, when the rage hit in a searing wave and she let her fork fall onto her plate with a loud clatter.

She managed to keep her voice low, controlled….at first. “You’re punishing me. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

House looked surprised…but he was overplaying it. “I’m not sure what-“

“Oh, come off it, House. This is your way of punishing me for daring to ask you what you _feel_.” She paused as another idea came to her. “Or is it because I dared to be honest and tell Chase and Foreman what was going on? Funny, I would think you’d prefer me _NOT_ to lie, given how much you hate liars…not to mention _you_ brought the whole issue up, _right in front of them_. Making _sure_ they grilled me? A set-up, Dr. House?”

He cocked his head at her. “You have a wild imagination, Dr. Cameron.” He seemed calmer than before, unruffled, as though her anger was less threatening to him than her kindness.

She probably should not only have noted his calm reaction, but used it to her advantage….but unfortunately she was getting angrier by the minute, her voice getting louder and louder, and logic was taking a definite back-seat by this point.

“Ok, then, I’ll tell you something that’s _not_ a product of my imagination. My late husband – Thomas – was the first man I ever met that didn’t treat me like a pretty, mindless arm ornament. He wanted me for my mind, as much, if not more, than _this-_ ” she gestured sharply to herself. “Maybe if he hadn’t been sick, dying, maybe he would’ve just wanted to get into my pants like every other guy I’d tried to date up ‘til then, I don’t know…”

House was watching her intently, and now he opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off.

“He respected me, he respected my opinion. He didn’t feel threatened if I had thoughts or ideas that were different than his. He always told me what he was thinking and feeling, was always honest with me….he told me within an hour of meeting me that he was dying….for a girl who usually had men lying to her about being married, or about having a girlfriend, or about wanting a ‘long-term’ relationship, when all they wanted was to _fuck_ me….his honesty really was a significant part of his attractiveness. And being treated like an intellectual equal was a refreshing change.”

People were starting to look over at their table, but she wasn’t going to stop now. The anger and pain was like a huge hot ball in her chest, and she was going to let it all out before it destroyed her.

“You think _I_ think I can ‘fix’ anything that isn’t perfect. How, pray tell, would marrying a dying man help me do that? His cancer was inoperable, already metastisizing. If I’d wanted someone I could ‘fix’, don’t you think a guy with something _other_ than terminal cancer would’ve given me more bang for my buck? I married him because I _loved_ him, and he loved me. I wanted him to have the chance to experience marriage before he died, to have the comfort of a wife by his bedside….”

Tears were starting to blur her vision, and she blinked hard and tried to distract herself by grabbing her wineglass and knocking back the contents in one swallow.

House was sitting there frozen, like someone had disconnected his emotion chip – _needless Star Trek: Next Generation reference, thank you, Dr. Alli, she thought sarcastically to herself_ – like he didn’t know what to say. Or was shocked at how quickly she’d drunk the wine, Allison didn’t know which.

Allison glared at him. “Well? No ‘differential diagnosis’? No snappy comeback?” Her hand tightened around the stem of the wineglass.

“Cameron,” House said. There was a long pause, and then he sighed. “I _can’t_ give you what you want.”

“No, you _won’t_. There’s a difference.” Her hand tightening further.

“Semantics.” House said. And didn’t say anything else.

“You’re a scared little boy who doesn’t want to grow up…..Grow some _balls_ , Dr. House.” she sniped at him….And that was when the stem of the wineglass broke in her hand, one particularly large shard stabbing into her index finger. She cried out in shock and pain and dropped the glass, reflexively grabbing her napkin and wrapping it around her finger, clutching her wounded hand to her chest.

House had partially risen to his feet in reaction….Allison registered this, at the same time as she registered the fact that practically everyone in the place was staring at them…at her. She felt blood rush to her face, and her wounded hand throbbed. And she felt the embers of her anger die down to a sickening, empty quiet.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she shoved back her chair and rose to her own feet, still clutching the now-bloody napkin tight around her finger. “I’m going to go to the ER, get this looked at.” she managed to choke out, not looking at House or at their impromptu audience.

“I’ll….I’ll come with you.” he offered, but he sounded insincere to her ears.

“No need.” she told him, wanting him as far away from her as possible at this very moment. “I’m a big girl, I can handle it.” Damned if she’d show weakness by asking him along. And she further realized that if she didn’t show up to work tomorrow, this would come across as a further sign of weakness. _No, I’m not going to let him think he can get to me – at least, not any_ longer. She’d made that mistake already, going to his place to quit and basically telling him point-blank that she couldn’t stand the pain of his rejection, his detachment…and it had gotten her nowhere. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. So, she let him know that she wasn’t going to run away, not _this_ time. “See you tomorrow.” she said.

She turned and left the restaurant, then hailed a cab. Once in the cab, she took a quick glance at her injured digit, and decided to go home instead of the ER. It didn’t look as bad as she had first feared, and besides, what would she tell them? That she’d been on a date with House, and gotten so angry she’d broken a glass and hurt herself? She’d never hear the end of it.

So instead, she wound up at home, bandaging her finger tightly with gauze, removing her evening wear, chucking the corsage – Why did he buy it? It wasn’t like he actually _cared_ – into her garbage can. Getting dressed in an old sweatsuit, and plunking down in front of a movie with some popcorn, staying up until late into the night…this was _far_ better than going out on a date with someone who underestimated her emotional maturity so completely…

 

The next morning, Allison still had every intention of sticking to her plan. House thought her weak, needy, and she had foolishly reinforced this view by asking him if he liked her, by telling him at his place how much he got to her, and how she had to run away because of it…. _Stupid bitch_ , she berated herself.

So, she was going to prove to him that she _wasn’t_ weak. Instead of running away this time, she was going to stay at PPTH, and do her job. When House did his flirting, she’d give him no reaction at all, not even the mild amusement with which she had greeted it in the beginning. When he praised her work ( _if_ he praised her work), she’d thank him politely and then move on. If he snarked at her, she’d stand up for herself if needed, but otherwise just ignore it. Be as cold and detached as possible. As _he_ was. Take a page from his book and feed it back to him, and see how _he_ liked it.

So when Foreman and Chase started to grill her about the date later that morning, she did her best ‘House’ imitation, being vague and unruffled and even snarky (“He was only snide when we talked about you guys”) as required. And when they asked if she’d be dating House again, she only said “I…don’t know.” Let the population of PPTH deal with that statement. She was through opening herself up, exposing her feelings and her needs, and getting slapped across the face for it. And that also applied to Chase and possibly even Foreman and Wilson, she suddenly realized. Yep, definitely time to take a page from House’s book, to ‘cleverly have no personal life’. No personal stuff, no one could hurt you through it. Hallelujah and amen.

 

Version #3:

“You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn't perfect. That's why you married a man who was dying of cancer. You don't love - you _need_. And now that your husband is dead, you're looking for your new charity case….That's why you're going out with me. I'm twice your age, I'm not great-looking, I'm not charming...I'm not even nice. What I am is what you need - I'm damaged.”

She sat there for a few moments, staring at him. He didn’t meet her gaze, just blockaded himself behind the menu.

Sudden intense nausea hit her like a ton of bricks, and she whispered “Excuse me”, getting up and heading to the bathroom as slowly as she thought she could get away with without spewing the remains of lunch on the chic carpeting.

She made it – only _just_ – retching into the bowl in the tastefully decorated washroom. She stayed there, head hanging over the bowl, waiting out the dry heaves that followed.

She hadn’t thrown up like this since the last few days of Thomas’ life. The first time she had ever thrown up had been in high school, right after her first boyfriend had dumped her. She hadn’t even known what was happening to her, she’d just lost her lunch right there in the hallway, right in front of the cheating bastard (and half the cheerleading squad). When it had happened again, after another break-up several years later, her parents had sent her to a shrink. He’d told her there was no physical cause for the vomiting, it was all in her head - she got upset, translated it into a physical symptom, and then voila, her previously-enjoyed meal wound up on the carpet.

Finally realizing that her vomiting was mental in origin, she’d managed to control it – though not the nausea – during various tough break-ups after. But watching Thomas die had brought it all back. Watching the cancer consume him, watching the man she loved being gradually and inexorably removed from her life…she’d been throwing up several times a day towards the end.

And now, here it was again. Because of the memory of how Thomas had died? Because House had cut her so deeply with his ‘diagnosis’? 

She flushed, got up and splashed water on her face and mouth, and tried to control her remaining nausea with deep breaths. Luckily, she was alone in here, so she could linger long enough to try to decide what to do.

Clearly, asking House on a date had been a mistake. He definitely liked her – no man would come back _twice_ just to hire back a ‘good doctor’, not when he was surely overwhelmed with other qualified fellowship applicants – but that didn’t mean he was ready to go out with her, to have a meaningful relationship. Allison didn’t know what had happened in his life to make him so leery of opening up, but she doubted at this point that _she_ was the one who was going to see him do it.

_God,_ she thought to herself. _I’m such an idiot. I practically_ asked _him to kick me in the gut, and then I get all pukey when he does what he does. He’s_ House, _for God’s sake! He isn’t nice on a regular basis, why would he be nice_ now _?_

_I was stupid enough, weak enough, to let myself develop feelings for him, to run away because he wouldn’t return them…._ Allison suddenly decided that the best way to save face – mainly in her own eyes, and perhaps in _his_ – would be to stay and complete her fellowship at PPTH. She’d already been there more than 6 months, so she had less than a year and half remaining in his company. And then at the end, she could boast to potential future employers that she’d spent a full 2 years in the company of the famously brilliant and brilliantly difficult Dr. Gregory House….

And besides, House _did_ like her. In fact, before her foolish ‘Do you like me?’ question, he’d been known to flirt subtly with her on occasion. So best to go back to being what he wanted, a ‘good doctor’, and maybe in time he’d come around on his own. Or she’d complete her fellowship and he’d give her a nice reference letter – particularly if he still _liked_ her, and respected her as a doctor – and then she could move on and leave her unrequited love for her boss behind her, with all the other crap in her past. 

Feeling somewhat better, she went back out to their table. House looked concerned, but Allison didn’t let herself feel any emotional reaction – that ship had sailed, at least for now.

“Excuse me, Dr. House, I’m suddenly not feeling well. I’ll have to take a rain-check. Thank you for the lovely flowers.” Although she had no intention, at this point, of going out with him again….not unless he begged on his knees, or made some declaration of his feelings, either of which seemed highly unlikely….

He said nothing, just sat and looked at her. And she made her escape.

 

The next day at PPTH, she did her best to act as if nothing of any note had happened on the date. She blamed her puffy eyes on the wine, not on sleeplessness. She reframed House’s diagnostic speech as a ‘candid conversation’. She invented a shop-talk discussion, one where they had made fun of the other Ducklings. She said merely “I…don’t know.” when asked if she’d be seeing House again. And that last part _was_ true.

And apparently House was engaging in similar behaviour.  Wilson cornered her a few hours after she came in, asking how the date went, and how the ‘ravioli’ had been. Considering she’d never even made it to dinner, it seemed that House was also trying to cover for what had happened. Interesting. She had halfway expected him to be gleefully spreading it all over the hospital, how she had gotten sick and ran from his company. 

Maybe that was another sign that he _did_ like her, that he was trying to spare her – or both of them – more embarrassment. _But it doesn’t matter if he likes me. If he’s not going to open up, it doesn’t do either of us any good_. _I can wait…when and if he decides to change that part of himself, I’ll still be here….at least for the next year and a bit._

 

Version #4:

“You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn't perfect. That's why you married a man who was dying of cancer. You don't love - you _need_. And now that your husband is dead, you're looking for your new charity case….That's why you're going out with me. I'm twice your age, I'm not great-looking, I'm not charming...I'm not even nice. What I am is what you need - I'm damaged.”

For a moment, she just looked at him, trying to decide how to react. He probably expected her to get all angry and defensive, or to get upset and cry.

But she had _expected_ just such a reaction. And she had come prepared.

“ _Such_ a coward, Greg. I ask you how you feel, and you give me a diagnosis. Typical guy thing to do, avoiding talking about your feelings, but….” She shook her head and chuckled.

He gave her his ‘surprised’ face. “Me? Typical?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, I suppose I could give you another psychoanalytic analysis, but I’m hungry. So we can save _that_ discussion for our _second_ date.” she said casually, as if it was already a given. She picked up her menu and perused it. _Hm, fettucine alfredo, or the ravioli with truffle oil?_

Once she had made her decision, she looked up to find House watching her. He had on the same expression he’d worn when she first told him she wanted a date with him, as a requirement for coming back. Like he didn’t know what to do or think.

So, she took her advantage. “Boy, you are _so_ full of bullshit sometimes, Greg,”- again, deliberately using his first name…he had tried to push her, now she would push back…in her nice way, of course – “it’s a wonder you don’t squeak when you walk.” She smiled at him to take the sting out of her words.

“I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Cameron.” he said, an edge to his voice. 

_ His tactic isn’t working, and now he feels threatened, _ she thought. “You said you _aren’t_ good looking or charming. You’re lying to yourself. Interesting, for a man who despises lying, to be engaging in such behaviour, don’t you think? And unfortunate, as well.” Continuing to smile at him.

He just shook his head and started to say something, but then the waiter appeared.

Once their orders had been given, Allison calmly returned to the subject at hand. “I’ll give you _my_ diagnosis of you, shall I, Greg? I don’t know why you hate yourself so much, but you do. You’ve convinced yourself that the cane and the leg – and the pain - make you ugly. You’ve convinced yourself that no one would want you – not as a friend, not as a lover. So you put up 20-foot walls around yourself, and a moat with sea monsters around them, and you pop those little white pills to distance yourself even further.” She paused to see if her words were having an effect.

House’s mouth tightened, and he sat back in his chair and started fiddling with his cane. “Like I said, I’m damaged. I never denied it.”

“And, you have a vested interest in being damaged, in _remaining_ damaged. In fact, you go looking for any excuse to reinforce it. Instead of thinking that maybe I want you for _you_ , because of your many good qualities – which you choose to overlook – you assume that it’s some weakness in me, that I want only damaged men, and that _you_ fit the bill.”

Again, they were interrupted by the waiter, bringing the insalata and their main courses. Silence briefly reined while Allison enjoyed her food – determined to enjoy this part of the date, at least. And House was devouring his puttanesca like pasta had just been invented, so Alli felt no guilt for ruining the date for him in _that_ area.

Once they had finished, she sat back, dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, and said “Wow, that was as good as I remembered. Thanks for bringing us here, Greg.”

“Welcome.” he said, but he was looking into his wineglass, at his empty plate, around the room….anywhere _but_ at her.

They sat that way for nearly ten minutes, Allison marvelling inwardly at herself, that she could feel and act so calm, waiting him out like this, and Greg seeming to get more and more nervous with every passing moment.

When the waiter came by offering dessert, she expected Greg to ask for the check and to bolt out of there, but he surprised her by electing to stay. So, maybe this was a _good_ sign. He could’ve escaped, but hadn’t...yet It was only a brief wait before dessert (much to Greg’s apparent relief), tiramisu for her, canolli for him….she was tempted to discomfit him even further by offering him a bit of her dessert on her fork, but then decided against it.

Finally, they were done, just waiting for the waiter to return with House’s credit card. And he still hadn’t said much of anything since Allison had put forth her self-fulfilling, self-hate Theory of House.

After some internal debate, Allison decided to up the ante one more notch. What was the worst he could do? Fire her? He’d had his chance to walk away – multiple chances – and he hadn’t taken them, so she was pretty sure he wouldn’t bolt now…but she could only try it and see.

So, she got up leisurely and walked around the table, grabbing his red-checked tie in one hand and taking his chin in her other hand, paying no attention to the looks she was getting from nearby tables. Once she was sure he couldn’t turn his head away, she closed her eyes (so she wouldn’t have to see his look of panic-shock), and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

God, she was loving this. Relishing the feel of his stubble against her hand, her face. His lips dry, soft, firm under hers. The faint scents of him – cologne, detergent, musk. She momentarily considered slipping him the tongue, but then decided against it – he was probably already freaked out by this enough.

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled away from him and stood back up. Time to make a graceful exit. “Thank you for a very…interesting evening, Gregory….When you decide that you’re ready to open up and engage in a _real_ relationship, one where feelings are actually openly expressed, I’ll be here.”

And then she walked calmly and slowly out. And went home feeling very pleased with herself. Sure, she hadn’t secured a second date, or an undying declaration of love, but then again, she hadn’t expected either. It was up to him, now. And in the meantime, she was going to do her job and _enjoy_ her work, no more, no less. If chasing was going to be involved, it would have to come from him from now on. She’d already laid all her cards on the table…

 

When House woke up the next day, he was in a rare state of emotional turmoil.

The hedonistic part of his brain was stuck in a loop, processing and reprocessing the kiss. He could close his eyes and clearly remember the way her lips had felt against his. The feel of her soft hair brushing against his face. It had gotten tangled in his stubble, he remembered, sticking to his face and tickling him when she had finally pulled away. He remembered the warmth and softness of her hand against his chin. Recalled the soft floral scent of her perfume, the scents of her hair and skin and clothing, even the faint scent of the corsage he himself – acting on an impulse even _he_ hadn’t understood at the time – had bought for her.

The logical part of his brain, on the other hand, was examining the diagnosis of him that she had offered in return. Not that he doubted her analysis – he agreed with it 100 percent, in fact. _Of course_ he had put up walls, shut people out. People lied, and people caused others pain. Even someone who loved you could cause you pain….sometimes the _worst_ pain. But he didn’t want to dwell on that, that took him back to Stacy, and he tried not to go back there if he could help it…but was Allison cut from the same cloth as Stacy, he asked himself? Would things backfire in the same fashion? Stacy had screwed him, figuratively speaking, and then left him because of the physical and emotional damage _she_ had caused him. If he believed Cameron, she was not only _not_ scared away by his damage, but wanted him in spite of it. Or so she claimed.

He wondered at how she saw him so clearly, read him so easily. Was it that evident to everyone around him that he really wasn’t such a bastard just for the fun of it, but rather engaged in such behaviour as self-protection? Of course  Wilson and Cuddy would know that, they knew his history, but the thought that any of the Ducklings would realize this about him…was it Cameron’s compassion and empathy that had helped her to figure him out? Or was he losing his ability to keep up consistent and strong defenses?

No longer wanting to entertain these thoughts, he instead tried to plan out how to handle the inevitable grilling he was going to get from  Wilson and Cuddy and everyone else at PPTH about the date. 

He’d say as little as possible, he decided. He’d tell everyone they’d had a nice chat, that the food had been good but caused a little indigestion….yeah, that would work. He didn’t want his business spread all over PPTH ( _again_ ) for everyone else’s debating pleasure, and he could only hope that Cameron would finally realize that she was better off keeping her private life separate from work…

So when  Wilson asked if House was going to take Allison out again, Greg kept it simple. “I don’t think so.” Which really meant – no, I won’t be taking her _out_ …but I may well ask her back to my place, for beer and pizza…and maybe sex? 

Because God, that kiss – chaste as it was – had been fun. Tasty. And hedonist that he was, he wanted more. But he was going to keep quiet about such matters on the PPTH premises….let Wilson and everyone else find some other poor sap to play Dear Abby to…Greg House always preferred the sneaky, furtive approach anyways, it added spice to life…

 


End file.
